If you like food, live in a walking city, feel personally punished by the illusion of good quality and diverse produce, despise Whole Foods and other overpriced Organic marts, and long for your childhood pick-n-patch, you’ve considered visiting a pick your own. OK. That was my own personal moment. More likely it sounds novel and fun.

What do you imagine? My visual goes something like this: sweeping hills, quaintly terraced vegetable patches, produce so beautiful, flavorful, and cheap you feel like you’re stealing the farmer’s children, and trees with sagging limbs under the weight of sweet, plump fruit. Growing up I picked a lot of fruit from our local farm in sub-rural Connecticut, and would leave red-faced from eating raspberries off the bush and dragging a bag full of apples. I decided to test the fruit and vegetable landscape in upstate New York.

I have the 10th Anniversary edition of this horrible cookbook called The New INTER COURSES. The book is broken down into the aphrodisiacs of the world like chocolate, chilies, and asparagus, and then suggests recipes based on these foods. How anyone could possibly drink a whole cup of syrupy, Mexican hot chocolate and then want to have sex is beyond me. Unless your idea of sex is lying still and digesting.

I cannot deny that when I put real, dark chocolate in my mouth I am almost instantly aroused. Even thinking about putting chocolate in my mouth right now makes me want to have sex. But I would be basically comatose after partaking in a meal consisting of Come-to-Jamaica Wings followed by Pasta with Asparagus, Chicken, and Gorgonzola, and finished with a nice thick slice of Black Russian Cake.